2018 has been a good year. Well I think it has, but with that good fortune has come the lowlights too, the ones where you continually question yourself, your motives and your abilities. First of all, I finished a manuscript I was confident to show the world. After two rejections and 3 non-answers and a follow-up with 3 agents (with 2 rejections and one non-answer) I now question that misplaced pride. It still needs work, still needs refining – I completed the first draft of it in 2017 during Nanowrimo and edited it several times over an eight-month period. I entered it into competitions, only for further rejections to follow. I’ve even edited further since submitting it and entered it into two other competitions, again one of those I put down to another failure. No one is interested in my novel. No one thinks it has merit for publication (aside from friends and family and they’re biased) and hearing the good fortunes of other writers and peers – is only bringing me down – misery loves company it seems (I want to cheer for them, but there’s a human behind these thoughts and I can’t stop myself).

But I shouldn’t dwell on this – I have published my first work of fiction – a short story in Tulpa Magazine (a local lit and arts magazine) and found some stability in my employment. I participated in Nanowrimo again this year and wrote another rough first draft – part of it I also ‘won’ a design cover through their ‘30 covers in 30 days program’ My synopsis enticing enough to attract someone’s attention.

None of these achievements stop the feelings of inadequacy, with a small measure of imposter syndrome to boot – does this qualify me as part of the writer’s club now? I’ll persevere, it’s the key after all everyone keeps telling me, but some days are just hard.